But roses from my touch recoil,

As emblems of thy fitful heart,
And products of whatever soil

Is blest by Nature and by art,
A common language breathe of thee,
That points to thy inconstancy.

The desert waste, the region wild,

And every well accustomed way, Familiar to the peasant child,

And wantons of a short-lived day, Present a mingled feast of flowers, Congenial to thy fervid want,

Where passion may recline through hours Of freedom from unwelcome taunt,

That bid thee haste with promptings ripe, And read in them thine only type.

But what are flowers that wildly grow

Where every footstep dares to tread?

Can they a fitting wreath bestow

To deck thy thrice-beloved head?

Or wilt thou suffer aught profane

And rustic in his grasp to tear A primrose from the copse or lane, And place it in thy flaxen hair? Let Nature's sons enjoy the fruit

Awarded them by Nature's hand,

And prosecute their tender suit

With daughters of the neighbouring land:

The Fountain of inherent worth,

For purposes supremely great,

Hath sent thee, in His wisdom, forth

On cultivated minds to wait,

And lead them with unquenched desire

In letters and in arts yet higher.

Or why wast thou in childhood's days

The theme of universal praise?

And why, as time exulting flew,

Didst thou an equal zeal renew?

Till European masters vied

To greet their pupil as their guide;

And sagely-boasted latin lore,

Translated by thee o'er and o'er,

Could yield fresh beauties now no more! With these possessions, be thy mind,

As heretofore, intently staid

On subjects classic and refined,

Thou lovely and illustrious maid,

And be what thou wast deemed at birth,

Without a parallel on earth!

OH! COULD I COMMAND.

OH! Could I command but the wings of a dove,
With the wish to possess thee as now,

My heart should no longer consume in its love,
Nor my lips the fond truth disavow,-
But direct as the bird when its home is in view,
Would I follow the course that my heart should

pursue.

Yet alone am I destined to pine in the gloom

That prevaileth where'er thou art not,
Till an angel of light shall restore thee to bloom

In the brightness of hope on the spot,

Where oft I have glowed in the warmth of thine eyes, And reflected the glance in congenial sighs.

THE BLUE-BELL.

LET art within the gay parterre

Extend a timely fostering hand,

And cherish with her wonted care
The pride of every distant land.

While laughing blue-bells on the height
Of unproductive heath display

Their freshness to the clouded night,

And brave the Summer's scorching day.

Though shaken by the playful breeze

That tempers the meridian blaze,

The merry groups depend at ease,

And court the mirth that round them plays.